


Flannel and Buttons

by foolishnotions



Series: Tokens from the Roadside [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sparrow Hill Road - Seanan McGuire, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Ghost Stories, Hitchhiking, Resurrections, dangers of the afterlife, demonic vehicles, faustian bargains, liminal spaces, maybe dead girls do make friends, metaphysicl rules-lawyering, roadside diners, roadside rescues, superheroes and dead girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8071699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishnotions/pseuds/foolishnotions
Summary: Bobby Cross is running the roads and he's faster than Rose is and Clint, the living stranger walking beside her is probably too stupid and too clueless to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Like Rose, I am not very invested in 'linear'. In Rose's timeline, this is sometime before she understands Bobby's nature. In Clint's timeline? Well, you decide.

When your only method of getting from one place to another is hitchhiking, you actually walk a lot more than you ride. Your thumb is out and you're ready for someone to take you somewhere, but on that stretch of nowhere road in middle America all you can really do is walk and wait. You walk a lot of those miles alone. It’s part of hitchhiking, whether you do it in the Twilight or not.

Which is why I’m surprised when I discover that tonight, I have company.

I’d lost track of how long I’d been walking the roads or how far it’s even been since the last exit when I noticed the man walking next to me, apparently unconcerned by what it looks like to sneak up on a teenage girl on the highway. He looks like a mess and I’m briefly put off by the fact that he ignores me when I ask his name. A moment later I see the flash of purple behind his ear and understand what the deal is. I turn my head so he can see me better and ask again. 

It turns out his name is Clint and the only thing he can tell me about where he’s going is “away”. That's never a good sign, and we’re near enough to a big city that I’m suspicious but not enough to question it too hard. There’s just enough distance in his bright blue eyes for me to understand why he's walking like this; enough to let him share the road with me, anyway. 

So we walk. 

We don't talk much as we wander the highway shoulder together; the weather has been promising to turn bad for a while and the wind is making it hard for us to talk as it picks up. Either way, the silence isn’t uncomfortable. I usually like to get to know the people who pick me up better than this, but he’s not my ride and I don't mind going a little off the usual script. 

“You get this personal with everyone who isn't driving you anywhere,” he finally asks when I do try to make conversation. After that, he turns his head away, adjusting his posture and looking… something. Guilty? Ashamed? Afraid maybe, I can't be sure. It's enough to convince me not to press him too hard. Not while the air is clean, smelling only like the storm that's on the way.

“Suit yourself. I'm a psychopomp for the dead; nothing says I have to be a therapist for the living, too.” I shrug and let it go. 

I do watch his body language though, and it's increasingly clear to me that this guy has problems I don't want for my own. Whatever they are; they're Daylight problems, sedentary problems and I wouldn't know what to do about them. I'm giving some consideration to dropping down to the ghost roads and trying again a couple of miles away from Clint and his problems when the skies open. Clint is soaked.

Me? I didn't have a coat on when all this started. 

That's why there's nothing I could do when ashes and lilies came out of nowhere to invade my senses, dry, and cloying and dead. There’s no warning, no tickle telling me I can fix this if I can figure out how, just impending death attaching itself to this wanderer beside me and a promise that I’ll fail. 

Fuck that. That’s not how it’s going to be. 

I move myself in front of him so that he can't look away from me again, or dodge what I have to say. I want to make sure he understands me when I warn him to step off the highway shoulder and into the space between the ghost roads and the other Americas where what's on the road is a much vaguer threat. I walk backwards a couple of steps to stay with him but his legs are longer than mine and even though I'm not limited by how fast my legs can carry me, I misjudge how fast he’s going. He presses on, right through me. 

I hate it so much when the living do that.

To his credit, Clint stops when he realises what he’s just done. He turns around, narrows his eyes at me and takes his soaking wet flannel shirt off his shoulders, holding it out to me with a sheepish smile. His shirt is soaked and cold and even the borrowed life it grants me isn’t enough to banish the chill of death in this weather but when it touches me, I'm solid so I grab his wrist and run for the ditch. 

If we're already in the ditch when screech of tires I can hear somewhere behind us arrives, it can’t send us there, right? 

I thought so until the final warning came. Burning rubber and motor oil on the air could be anything at this stage with me unable to see the car coming. It could be as good as sign as bad; the accident happened and we’re safely away from it. Of course, if that were the case, I wouldn't smell lilies.

I also wouldn’t smell wormwood. 

It came on as suddenly as everything else, the final ingredient in this recipe for awful. I straighten and try to hold Clint back from trying to return to the highway shoulder. He gives me a confused look, struggling at my hand for a moment and protesting when I won't let go. This isn't going to last, not with me still sixteen and tiny as the day I died. I'm not exactly built for holding anyone back from anything at the best of times, especially not grown men this much bigger than I am, with arms this much stronger. Eventually, he’ll break free of my hand and make his way back to the highway shoulder and then what? 

Oh lord, who art probably not in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Oh Lady, deliver me from darkness, deliver me from evil, and please, please deliver me from Bobby Cross.

I hear Bobby’s engine roar somewhere back from us on the road and the wormwood overtakes my senses. Clint has broken free of my grip to investigate what sent me running into the ditch. Not blessed with the good sense to follow a hitcher running away from a ride, he scrambles back to the road. He can’t hear Bobby’s engine, with or without assistance or take warning from the wormwood heavy in the air now. They’re warnings for psychopomps, not the living. 

What would the living even do with this kind of warning? 

It doesn’t matter, he wouldn’t have listened anyway. He’s back on the road and I can see the headlights growing larger in the distance when I scramble up to join him, hauling him around to face me. 

Lady Persephone help me, he has his thumb out. He thinks this what’s coming is a ride. 

I’ve half a mind to abandon this wreck and run, just run and hope that Bobby doesn’t notice I’m here. I don’t know for sure this is the kind of person he takes. Clint’s no young, innocent thing, and I can tell he’s seen enough of the road to be something other than Bobby’s type. Maybe that means he’ll drive on. 

Drive right after me. That’s no damn good either. 

There isn't a lot of time so I grab Clint’s shoulder and shove him until he's looking at me. I need him to understand. 

I need him to understand that that isn't a ride waiting for him, that it can't ever be anything but bad. I need him to understand that that way lies way worse things than hitchhiking ghosts in the twilight. I need him to understand and help me because I think we can still both get away. 

He doesn't understand any of it. The headlights are growing now and the light is spilling out across the highway now and for fuck’s sake this moron keeps his thumb out. 

I can't save people from being this persistently stupid. 

I think he finally gets it when he turns with me to run and I make for the ditch again, losing sight of him. I don't look back when I hear the backpack he was carrying make a thudding noise when it hits the ground and then a whistling, hissing noise. Bobby’s engine screams and its tires grind against the pavement. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see sparks coming off the road. 

I decide to risk a glance behind me and find that Bobby’s car has swerved, but in the wrong direction. The tires are flat and the rims are scraping the road. 

I'm not sure, but I think I see an arrow sticking out from one of the wheels. 

I don't get any time to think about that though, because Clint finally shows some sense and makes a run for the ditch, and then the field beyond, grabbing me by the arm when he overtakes me. It only takes seconds for Bobby to turn his car around after us. He's angry now and doesn't seem to care at the damage that's been done to his car. He speeds right for us across more lanes of traffic than I want to think about.  
I’m dead and I have a lot more experience with quick getaways than Clint probably does. I get out of Bobby’s way. He doesn't.

When a car hits a pedestrian— when it means to hit a pedestrian— there’s no screaming horn or crashing metal or glass or screeching rubber on pavement. When it’s a horror car from the Midnight or Twilight or whatever level Bobby belongs to, the only sounds it makes are the engine growl and the crush the body hitting the pavement. By the time I turn and get a good look, I can’t find Bobby, or his car. 

I’ll have time to worry about why that’s weird later. 

Clint’s pack is shredded and its contents mostly destroyed across the highway. Among them I think I can see more of the arrows I saw in Bobby’s car and I understand why he didn't run. 

Shit, why did this have to go and get worse?

Clint himself is on the ground on the highway shoulder, broken but recognisable and ground, to some extent into the gravel. I start to go to him and step on one of the purple hearing aids I’d noticed earlier and I’m not sure why, but I bend to pick it up. 

It’s solid in my hand. The world is still solid around me.

I forget everything else and break into a run toward where he’s lying on the ground. He’s not breathing, but his coat still feels real. I’m not slipping into the gravel. I don’t know if there’s a heartbeat or not; I can’t check for a pulse and honestly I’ve never needed to. I know when they’re gone. 

Except that Clint looks like he’s gone, but I’m not. The life he lent me is still here.  
He stays unconscious on the road and I try to decide what to do. I try to wake him but it’s no good. I take his hand and hold it and look around. Is this what it’s like? Shit, is this what it’s like when Bobby takes them? Do they stay, caught between living and dead until his car does whatever it does with them to keep itself going? I don’t know. I don’t care. 

For a minute, watching somebody I barely know who’s already gone but who hasn’t left, I'm ready to trade. I’m ready to walk away from everything, take whatever Bobby has coming for me, for all my years of running, to give this guy back something. A life, an afterlife, whatever can be salvaged at this point. 

I pull myself to my feet and look around. God damn, I could use a haunt or a Crossroads or just about any help the Ghost Roads might have in mind. Hell, right now I’d even bargain directly with Bobby if I thought it would help.

Persephone help me, what am I thinking?

I don’t even know if any of them could help me. This is a little out of my wheelhouse. Nobody’s ever got stuck halfway through dying before, this has got to be a first. When a look around the area doesn’t reveal any clues about what to do now, I bend back down, take Clint’s hand and try to find him inside, or not. I can still feel his hand. 

That’s good, right? Fuck I don’t know. 

“It’s not bad,” I jump. I hadn’t even realised I was talking, much less that there was anyone here to listen and respond. There wasn’t, just a second ago. So why is there a voice behind me now? I wheel around to see a young man standing there. Faded, tired-looking, and dry despite the rain, with eyes like a thousand miles of bad road. 

Crossroads eyes.

“It isn’t good, either,” the ghost continues. I don’t really know what or who I’m looking at right about now but the only other time I’ve seen eyes like those? It went almost as well as this is going for me now. 

“Bobby broke the rules and got caught. He can't take your friend,” he explains finally. “Where that leaves him, however?” The ghost looks down, like this is more than just an explanation. This hurts him. 

I don’t care. 

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘broke the rules’? You mean to say Bobby doesn’t just run around doing whatever the fuck he wants, that someone lets him do this?” I want to yell, and scream and punch this ghost. Someone knows, someone permits this to go on, to have gone on for decades. This ghost knows how, and why and maybe how to stop it and I want to hurt him until he gives me some answers.

The ghost gives me an impassive look but doesn’t reply. I can yell and scream all I want. I’m not getting what I want today.  
“I'm afraid I don't know.” Of course he doesn't. Why would anyone in the afterlife actually understand anything about the afterlife? “There’s an exit ahead, and a diner. You can make him comfortable and see what happens.”

I glare. I know better than to trust Crossroads eyes.

“Or you can stay here,” he says after a long pause. He knows I don’t have to take his advice. He also knows I can’t just leave him here. 

I don’t bother to measure how long it takes me to get Clint off the highway and moving in the direction of the diner the ghost mentioned. I died too young and too small to easily transport the dead weight of a full grown man any distance, and the ghost either can’t or won’t help me get him there. It’s just as well, I don't know that I want his help. Mostly, I want him gone. 

Eventually we do get there though and I’m not particularly surprised to see the green neon lighting flickering up ahead. Of course it’s the Last Dance. It was always going to be the Last Dance. 

That’s probably the only good news I’m going to get all night. 

At least, I thought so until the sign flickered red, for just a moment. For just a moment, the sign read Last Chance and I thought that I could maybe smell a hint of rosemary and sugary perfume. 

Even in the Twilight, a faint hope is better than no hope, right? 

I make it to the doors, where Emma helps me get him inside and to a booth, frowning as she looks down at him, then sets him down as comfortably as we can. She doesn’t know what to do about him any more than anyone else. I don’t know why I thought she might. She puts down a towel and a cup of coffee and sits down across from us while I do my best to dry us off and try to decide how I’m going to explain this to her. 

When I’m done, Emma says what I was most afraid to hear. 

“There isn’t much for it, I’m afraid” she says, setting a second towel on his soaked shoulders. “Right now, until the Twilight decides what to do with him, your friend’s an impossible thing. Either he’ll rise, or he won't. Either he’ll wake up, or he won’t.”  
Thanks. That was so helpful, Emma. I tell her so and get an impossibly green glare from across the table for my trouble. 

I don’t get any hints from Clint, either. No more lilies, no more rosemary, no more wormwood. I don’t know. I stir my malted and glare at the dead weight beside me. 

You knew I was already dead. You didn’t need to help me get away. What the sweet fuck were you thinking?

I stir my coffee. I don't really want it, and my hands aren’t absorbing any warmth from the cup when I hold it, so I let go. I shrug out of Clint’s shirt— it’s probably rude to go around wearing his life when he can’t— and set the soaked flannel under his head. 

Then, things start happening all at once. 

A red-haired waitress I’ve never seen before but who’s been watching us since we came in drops a glass she was cleaning behind the counter. Startled, I turn my head to look and almost miss the gasp and sleepy groan that comes from beside me on the bench. 

It’s not much, but it’s enough. I whip my head around to watch and wait for him to stir again. He doesn’t, not right away. Emma and I just watch. She adjusts the shirt so that it covers a little more of him, and I abandon all concessions to good manners and walk through the table to the other side to get a better look.

There’s a second sleepy groan, and then he turns his head, blinking. 

He startles when he realises he’s in a diner and not a hospital and panics, takes a breath, calms down, and startles again when he sees the pieces of his hearing aid on the table. He sighs and looks at me. I shrug and give him a sheepish look, then a grateful smile. 

It turns out Clint’s as susceptible as anyone else to Emma’s unique charms, because he looks at her and calms down after a long moment. I don’t know what she told him or how. I don’t really care. 

The waitress comes over to our table with two aspirin and a fresh cup of coffee, setting them both down in front of Clint, who makes short work of both. He probably needs medical attention, but he can worry about that later. For now, he looks surprisingly serene. 

Emma puts a sweater on the table for me to borrow, but I don't pick it up. I’ve borrowed enough life for now. 

I stand up, getting ready to go back out and try to find a ride, but Clint stops me. 

“Aww Rose, no. Don't go yet. At least let me get you a cup of coffee, and maybe a cheeseburger?” His smile looks entirely too hopeful when he asks. 

I shrug and return to the table and pick up Emma’s sweater and sit back down. He’s taken my abandoned coffee from earlier which I figure is probably only fair, especially since his own is now in his lap. He takes this in stride, more or less and Emma sets down more food and coffee a few minutes later. There’s a ton of stuff for us to talk about but we don’t bother, not right away. 

For now, it’s nice to just be warm, and dry, and breathing.


End file.
